


There's Room For You Inside

by CatBones



Category: Metallica
Genre: Grief/Loss, Homesickness, Hurt/Comfort, Lars is a hot mess, M/M, Post-Cliff, Recreational Drug Use, So is Jason, Weed as a Coping Mechanism, mentions of coke addiction, no porn only feelings, pre-AJFA
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-16 00:22:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21027185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatBones/pseuds/CatBones
Summary: Jason and Lars share a common denominator: Home, and how far away they are from it.





	There's Room For You Inside

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this as a bit of a palette cleanser because I've been going full speed ahead with my other 'Tallica fic and there really isn't enough Jason/Lars fluff out here, so Hi I'm here to contribute. Largely inspired by Pink Floyd's "Time"; I was bumping all of "Dark Side of the Moon" as I wrote this and got all up in my feels, and now I'm going to subject everyone else to it, too.
> 
> Enjoy.

Lars Ulrich has never been afraid to talk.

One could say he even excels at it; Catch him any waking moment and it’s guaranteed you’ll find him running his mouth. Of course, an inflated ego supplemented by a healthy stream of cocaine will give anyone the ability to chat the hinges off a door, but even before the rock-star fantasy kicked itself up to eleven there was always something coming out of the tiny Dane’s rather large mouth.

As previously stated, he’s _always_ talking.

Talking about James, talking about Kirk, talking about Metallica.   
Talking about the upcoming record, talking about a music video, talking about another tour.  
Talking business, talking shit, talking trash. Talk talk talk.

Hell, all the guy ever does is talk. 

The only thing he never talks about, however, is _himself. _

Sure, he’s more than happy to go off on a tangent about how Metallica is going to shoot themselves into the Stratosphere with this upcoming _Justice _record, or how they sound like no other band on the planet, or how they’re ironclad, untouchable, unbeatable.

But it’s always a collective _we _and never _I, Me, Mine. _Always _Metallica _this, _Metallica _that.

And, god forbid, it’s never, _ever _about his own feelings or wants or needs.

Jason can count on one hand the number of times he’s heard the drummer pop off about himself and it’s no use trying to pinpoint the moment that Lars Ulrich became infamous for his ego—he’s tried—and there’s also no use in trying to needle answers out of him, either. Which is why, when Jason sees Lars all folded up in the big windowsill at 2AM instead of behind his drum kit, staring absently at the street, silent and with a blanket pulled tightly over his shoulders, Jason knows something is wrong.

“Hey dude. Let’s go outside.”

Lars just looks up at him with those wide green eyes and says nothing. His silence alone speaks volumes and Jason simply extends a hand to him, helps him to his feet, and leads him out of the studio. They find a park down the block and get comfy on the benches as Jason fishes a spliff out of the pack of Marlboros from his pocket and lights up. It’s cold and Lars hikes the blanket higher up around his shoulders and Jason apologises, but the drummer doesn’t complain; he just shivers it off once the joint is passed his way and gladly takes a hit. Weed is a talker and if Lars isn’t going to be, then the drug will do it for him.

“So what’s on your mind, man?” Jason leads the conversation once they get nice and high, choosing his words deliberately but also treating them with a delicate sense of balance. Lars can be fragile; more fragile than anyone else in the band, and it’s not Jason’s goal to get answers out of him for his _own_ sake, but because he genuinely cares about his drummer.

“What’s on my mind,” the younger man mouths quietly, almost inaudibly, before taking another hit from the spliff. “A million fuckin’ things, that’s what.”  
“You wanna talk about it? Don’t gotta if you don’t wanna.”  
“Nah. I wanna.”  
“For sure.”

There’s a distant look in the drummer’s eyes and Jason isn’t sure if it’s from the weed or whatever’s eating him up, but he lets him take his time because he knows that look and he knows what Lars is plowing through at the moment. The cherry on the joint smoulders, as do Jason’s assumptions, by the time Lars speaks up again.

“There’s just…a lot on my fuckin’ mind, man.”  
“I can tell. Care to elaborate?”  
“Yeah. Yeah.”  
“I’m all ears, friend.”  
“…What does the word ‘home’ mean to you, Jase? What does it look like, how does it smell? Describe _home_.”

The question doesn’t catch Jason off guard because he knew all along what the longing in Lars’s eyes was rooted in, and as the joint is passed back to him he takes a long drag and sifts through thoughts and memories, holding the smoke in his lungs. His heart leaks out on the exhale and he just manages to give Lars this bittersweet smile, but the drummer doesn’t question it because he knows, he knows.

“Home smells like corn flakes.”

There’s a brief silence before Lars wrinkles his nose and snort-laughs at the statement, just enough to make dimples show themselves and that’s all Jason wants to see.

“Funny, right? There’s an old Kellogg’s granary back home and on those really nasty, super muggy summer days you can smell the cereal for miles. Fuckin’ _miles,_ man. You like, walk out your front door and just get belted in the face with what smells like the concentrate of ten thousand bowls of corn flakes.”  
“Gross.”  
“Haha, yeah,” Jason laughs it out, but now it’s his turn to be pensive because everything he’s been pushing down since he left Michigan is starting to surface, and he may have paused for just a moment too long because it prompts Lars to put a hand on his and squeeze. It’s grounding enough to keep him from floating away and it makes him just a little frustrated because _he’s _the one who’s supposed to be comforting Lars, not the other way around.  
“I left without the faintest clue of where I’d end up and sometimes…sometimes _home _really is in a box of corn flakes in the morning and I can’t help it, and it sucks.”  
“We call it _hjemve _back home. _H__jemlængsel_**. **And it’s fucking rough for me, too. I see home in everything around me. I see it on the TV, I hear it on the radio, I see it in my bandmates’ eyes,” Lars stops to suck in a breath and Jason hears his voice snag, “…and it _really_ fuckin' hurts.”

Jason just nods, takes a moment to collect his thoughts and feelings because he’s been hurting like hell, too.  
  
“What’s home for you, Lars?”

There’s the slightest hesitation in the drummer’s voice because he never opens himself up this way and its _terrifying_, really, but Jason squeezes his hand and it gives him just enough comfort to keep going.

“Home is far away. Home is _Æbleskiver, Gammel Dansk, _my mother tongue. Home is not having to translate my fucking sentences in my head before I speak them. Home is not being laughed at for looking, or talking, or, _fucking hell_, it’s so stupid I have to say this, _smelling _different, of all things. Home is tennis and Deep Purple and my parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles and cousins who are all thousands of miles away…”  
“Keep going.”  
“But home is also being able to do whatever the fuck I want without needing anyone's approval. Home is hopping from city to city and smashing my drums on a stage for fifteen thousand fucking people to hear. Home is doing lines of coke in a dirty bathroom stall with five other guys. Home is a disgusting tour bus where everyone’s black socks are all mixed up and there’s puke in the corner and there’s week old pizza rotting on the table, and it’s vile but you know what? It’s _home._ Home is James, and Kirk, and Cliff—_God_, do I miss Cliff.”

Jason winces at the name because he knows there’s a hole there that he can’t fill, that even though Cliff’s fate brought upon his destiny he still can’t help but feel like a square peg trying to fit into a circle, but he pushes these thoughts aside because right now his job is to listen. Lars has said his piece, though, and Jason lets silence fill in the gaps between them.

The joint is all but burned down to the roach so Jason snubs it out on the park bench and edges closer to Lars, who takes the blanket that was wrapped around his shoulders and drapes it across the both of them. The drummer finds his bassist’s hand again and laces their fingers, leaning his head on the older man’s shoulder as he lets his body sag, exhausted from everything. Jason says nothing and just takes to humming a tune because these moments when Lars finally opens up, when he lets the iron walls crumble and the ice to thaw and actually allows himself to be vulnerable are far and few between and so very precious.

“Is that Purple you’re humming?” Lars eventually breaks the silence.  
“_Child in Time_.”  
“Knew it. That’s one of my favourite songs, y'know.”  
“Yeah, that’s why I’m humming it.”  
“…I’m sorry about what I said. The, uhh, Cliff comment. I know it’s been hard for you to feel at home. I know James has been a real hardass on you and admittedly so have I, but…”  
“But?”  
“…but you can be my home, too, if you’ll let me.”

Jason’s mouth goes dry and Lars just leans in and gives him the softest little kiss, leaving him slack-jawed and stupefied and wondering just how strong the weed they’ve been smoking really is. The drummer is looking up at him with stars in his eyes and there’s a depth to them that the bassist is finding so hard not to get lost in, so when Lars goes in for another kiss, Jason’s heart jumps up to his throat because it’s not just the weed making him think that this is really happening and he reciprocates. They exchange more kisses and Lars brings skinny hands up to cradle Jason’s face, and when they break for air he presses his forehead against the bassist’s and just _breathes_. He’s shaking—Jason can feel it—and when Lars speaks his voice quivers like he’s on the verge of collapse because he probably is. His world is coming down and all he wants is for Jason to ride it out with him.

“Will you let me, Jason?”  
“Absolutely.”

Jason can feel the radiance of his smile despite the cold and they share just a kiss more before standing and making their way back to the studio, blanket still wrapped around their shoulders, fingers still laced together.

If they can’t shake the homesickness, then they may as well just make a new home in each other.

“If I ever catch you crying into a bowl of corn flakes I’ll know not to ask, Jase,” Lars adds, and the sound of Jason’s giggles fills the night air.


End file.
